


Purple Moon

by deusreks



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4714097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deusreks/pseuds/deusreks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tsukiyama Shuu is a colour blind art student. One day, amidst dull shades of grey, he spots the purest white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tsukiyama Shuu was staring at the bleak ceiling, his body splayed across the cold floor tiles. His dress shirt was stained dark grey and half-undone. His tie was discarded somewhere in the dim room and a thin, small finger was mercilessly poking his cheek.

“What is it, Little Mouse?” He called, unmoving.

“You are feeling down,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

Tsukiyama hummed thoughtfully and pointed his finger towards the only object in the room that had some light cast on it from a nearby window – a large canvas. “What do you see?”

Chie Hori tore her scrutinizing gaze away from Tsukiyama’s face and followed the direction of his finger. She patted a pink camera around her neck with her fingers for a few seconds and then her small head snapped back towards Tsukiyama. Had she not cut her black fringe recently, it would’ve poked her in the eyes.

“I see nothing.”

“Exactly,” Tsukiyama confirmed, exasperated.  He lifted his clenched fist as if he were trying to grab audience’s attention. “I must look so pathetic now that my muse has abandoned me!”

Chie lifted her camera. “In that case, I’m going to take a photo of your pathetic form.”

Tsukiyama swiftly brought his hand down, tilted his head and then stilled. “Make sure to capture my _good_ pathetic angle.”

“Of course,” she reassured with a devious smile befitting a promising, rising photographer. “Close your eyes, the flash is on.”

Tsukiyama’s eyelashes fluttered and closed; the world behind his lids was as sombre as the one that laid itself bare in front of him when his eyes were opened. He heard a clicking sound, felt a flash of light touch his cheek and then he declared it was safe to open his eyes again.

“You know, there are at least five people who currently want you to draw their portrait and are willing to pay for it,” Chie suggested. She always knew _someone_ , and that _someone_ knew _someone_. It was a great circle of _someone’s_ that Tsukiyama had no interest in.

He rolled to his side like a petulant child. “Bo~ _ring_.”

He heard Chie’s pout. “Perhaps your muse has left you because you’re treating people like dispensable objects. In your eyes everything has but temporary worth. You’re like a picky gourmet, always hungry for something that you haven’t found yet.”

“You’re getting poetic on me, Little Mouse,” Tsukiyama flashed a smile to the floor where he began drawing imaginary circles with his thumb. “And what’s wrong with that, anyway? I’m an artist.”

“Just be careful lest you end up with nothing,” Chie said and shuffled to her feet. “When should I tell Kanae to pick you up?”

“The usual.”

The doors of the room opened. “Hurry up and become interesting again,” Chie said and disappeared.

* * *

 

When the autumn dusk settled comfortably on the horizon, Tsukiyama made his way to the patio behind the campus with a sketchbook tucked under his armpits. His family name, and his condition, has bought him a dark, secluded room on the third floor of their faculty building for painting in peace and quiet but once outside he was still a regular art student with but a favourable reputation.

He sat down on one of the benches in the corner and crossed his long legs. He counted people around him. _Five, six, that shirt looks awful, nobody stands out_ …

And then he spotted _him_ , directly across from him, a few benches away.

Tsukiyama dared pull his sunglasses down just a bit, even if it meant risking feeling uncomfortable.

His hair _had_ to be white because Tsukiyama’s never witnessed purer white since he’s laid his eyes on the angel on Comerre's _L'annonce aux bergers_. The boy was reading a thick book, his slender fingers holding its cover as if it were something fragile, precious. The depth of his half-lidded eyes was almost sad and the curve of his nose subtle and charming in the dying light of the day. His lips were pressed in a thin line as his eyes swept across the page, his jaw firm. Tsukiyama found the urge to come closer, to observe the lines of his face more thoroughly.

Tsukiyama barely registered opening his sketchbook and pulling out a pen, but his hand drew as if it knew of nothing else until the boy walked away with his book in hand and Tsukiyama was left with a gaping knot of black swirls interrupted by thin, white lines in what seemed to be a violent dance of beauty and wonder – all on the face of one person.

_Have I found a sacrifice worthy of my muse’s return?_

Tittering with newfound excitement, Tsukiyama pulled out his phone to find an unread message.

[ **Kanae, 5:45pm** ]: I’m waiting for you by the gates

Tsukiyama responded:

[ **Me, 5:54pm** ] I’ll be there in a minute

As he watched the message icon fly away to be delivered, Tsukiyama tucked his sketchbook under his arm and strolled to the gates, his chin held high and his lips pulled into a smug grin. He spotted a shiny Lexus ES and all but bounced over. The doors to the passenger seat were open and next to them stood Kanae von Rosewald, Tsukiyama’s cousin, clad in leather pants and a plain t-shirt. His dark hair, which was tied in a neat, tiny ponytail that morning, now hugged his face in a ruffled fashion. It made one wonder what exactly happened down at the History Department.

“Sorry for making you wait,” Tsukiyama apologized as soon as he came within ear shot. Kanae flashed him a smile, his eyelashes charmingly fluttering over his eyes.

“I didn’t wait that long,” Kanae said and walked over to the driver’s seat.

Once they were both in the car, Kanae played them some Bach. The haunting sounds melted in the background and Tsukiyama relaxed into his seat, his chin propped on his palm as he looked out of the window. His other hand was on his knee, failing to keep it steady. He was, indeed, unable to contain his excitement and he ought to gain control of himself before they got back to the mansion.

“You know, I never really asked you what color this car was? I was dead-set on its color being black but it might as well be pink.”

Kanae chuckled. “I was wondering when you’d ask. But it’s black.” Kanae kept his eyes set on the road but out of the corner of his eye he occasionally glanced at Tsukiyama’s restless knee. “Is everything alright?”

“More than alright.”

Kanae left it at that and they drove through streets packed with traffic accompanied only by Bach. This was their routine. Tsukiyama’s condition rendered him unable to drive so Kanae drove them both to classes every morning and waited past his club activities for Tsukiyama to wrap up his day at the university. Kanae never complained; not when he had to help Tsukiyama with color-coded homework or when Tsukiyama spent days on end hogged up in his room because kids at school picked on him. Kanae was always there, more like a brother than a distant relative, and Tsukiyama hoped Kanae knew he would never take anything he did for him for granted.

“We’re here,” Kanae announced. He turned into a tree-lined road which lead into a broad courtyard and a parking lot. Behind it, a monstrous renaissance mansion bared its roman-columned teeth. “Father said he’d come home after us so we may eat dinner first.”

Tsukiyama nodded and crossed the courtyard with hurried steps. Once he pushed the doors of the mansion open, a round hallway opened before them. Two servants greeted them, head bowed, and informed them that dinner is ready. Tsukiyama’s stomach hadn’t calmed down yet; it has become a cage filled to the brim with a myriad of fluttering butterflies threatening to escape. He put his sketchbook down and turned to Kanae.

“Kanae,” he called. The tone of his voice alarmed Kanae. “Dance with me.”

“ _W-what_?”

Tsukiyama took advantage of Kanae’s surprise and pulled him in closer by the hips. He pressed one of his hands into the small of Kanae’s back and with other he sought out Kanae’s hand.

“Viennese Waltz,” Tsukiyama informed and began leading the dance. Dancing came natural to him, as natural as painting. He was made of long limbs, grace, _beauty_ and when he danced the floor was a canvas and his partner a paintbrush. Kanae fell into Tsukiyama’s movements with ease, his body relaxing and allowing itself to be led.

“You really _are_ more than alright today,” Kanae murmured against Tsukiyama’s chin. He was smiling, but then again, so was Tsukiyama.

“I told you.”

Tsukiyama twirled Kanae.

“That’s good,” Kanae continued speaking, but his voice was wavering, broken by attempts to keep his breathing steady. “I was worried about you.”

“I know you were and I’m thankful for it, always. But it’ll be alright.”

“So, what happe—“

The doors of the mansion opened.

Tsukiyama Mirumo entered, followed by two of his closest and most capable men. He was wearing a patterned light suit and a deep frown that ruined his otherwise fine face for a man his age. His eyes fell on Tsukiyama and Kanae and their private, little ballroom moment. The silence following Mirumo’s first words was tense.

“Shuu, how is the painting you’re going to submit to the contest proceeding?” He asked and before Tsukiyama replied, continued: “You _are_ going to compete, right?”

Tsukiyama let Kanae go and he stumbled back awkwardly.

“Yes, Father, I’m competing. The painting is in progress.”

“There are only three weeks left.”

“I know, Father.”

“Good,” Mirumo said and his facial expression fell into a mild one. “Did you boys have dinner already?”

Tsukiyama ate less than usual that night.

* * *

 

First time it was Luck that allowed Tsukiyama to set his eyes on _him_.

Second time it must’ve been Destiny because the boy had been at the same spot but a different book in his hands.

Third time was a Lesson that taught Tsukiyama that the boy had an unbreakable habit. That was all Tsukiyama needed to know.

This particular afternoon, Tsukiyama texted Chie: “ _I’ll be at my room later than usual. Past 5:30. Be there_.” Chie replied with “ _ok_ ”.

With his trusty sketchbook in his hands and a brand new pack of pencils, he found his way to what has become _his spot_ ; the one that offered the best view of the boy’s face without rousing suspicion. Tsukiyama sat down and crossed his legs. First, he pretended to look around in search of an idea, but his eyes inevitably – and he hoped not as _obviously_ – landed on the boy whose hair was white as first snow.

Today, the boy was wearing a dark sweater and worn-out jeans. The book he was reading was thicker than the one he was reading two days ago. Every so often he’d flash a tiny, fond smile as he flipped to the next page. Tsukiyama was curious about what the boy must think like because the titles he read Tsukiyama recognized as horror genre.

 _His hair is sticking up today_ , Tsukiyama noted with fondness for those rebellious strands and began sketching.

The boy left earlier than yesterday. He closed the book with a thud loud enough to startle Tsukiyama but he shrugged it off by adjusting his sunglasses. Tsukiyama waited five minutes before he dashed for his room. He skipped every other stair as he made his way to the third floor. Once he closed the doors behind him, he discarded his sunglasses.

The room was dark, as it was supposed to be, but he instantly spotted a short figure next to his blank canvas.

“Little Mouse, I have a favor to ask of you!” Tsukiyama exclaimed. Chie looked at him through his fringe, her lips forming a pout.

“You skipped out on me yesterday,” she accused but her voice was filled with curiosity nevertheless.

“I had to make sure that what I found was _real_ ,” Tsukiyama tried to reassure her but keep her interested enough to rouse her desire to hear more. She went quiet when she saw him flipping through his sketchbook. He opened the page with the sketch of the boy that he drew today and gave the sketchbook to Chie.

She took it in her hands, as gently as she handled her camera, and then walked over to the only window that allowed some light in.

“I’ve seen him around,” Chie said. Her index finger was drawing circles on her chin. “Why are you showing me this?”

“I need you to find out who he is.”

“Hm,” she mumbled, her eyebrows knit together in what must’ve been a painful frown. “Someone important?”

Tsukiyama flashed a smile. “My muse.”

“ _Oh_ ,” her small mouth stretched into a smile. Tsukiyama could see her eyes sparkle. “I’m on it.”

She walked back to Tsukiyama to return his sketchbook. Her eyes sought out the canvas. “You still haven’t painted anything, though…”

Tsukiyama pulled up a chair and sat in front of the canvas. It looked menacing from that angle; the pearly white extending towards the ceiling. Entire ideas were trapped inside his head, swirling in anticipation of being let out and fear of being let down by Tsukiyama’s own inadequacies. He didn’t have time to waver, not when he had finally found his spark again – even if that spark was alive and capable of setting everything on fire.

Tsukiyama’s sketchbook was resting safely on his thighs and he picked at the corner of it. He bit his lower lip as he thought about the boy and his delicate yet mysterious profile among roses and darkness. And then his light cutting through dark tones… It could be beautiful.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Chie said and began rummaging through her pockets. Her pockets were very deep. What she pulled out were unlabeled tubes of tempera. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

“You better use them and win that competition.”

“Do you doubt me, Little Mouse?”

“Never.”

* * *

 

Tsukiyama checked his appearance in the mirror. He was growing nervous. This would be the fourth time he went to draw the boy, to scoop up some inspiration, and even though they haven’t spoken a word Tsukiyama felt the need to _impress_. That must’ve been a dormant, but instilled, part of him that manifested itself whenever something, or someone, became so important to Tsukiyama that he wanted to be seen as worthy.

His dress shirt was neatly tucked into his jeans. His hair was brushed into obedient perfection, his fringe hugging his face in a way that made him look stylish yet seemingly casual. He put lip balm on his lips and put on his favorite pair of sunglasses.

With his sketchbook tucked under his arm as usual, he walked into the dying sunlight. He was greeted by several people whose names he couldn’t remember and smiled even if that smile wasn’t meant for them.

He was at _the_ spot on time.

 _But_.

The boy wasn’t there.

Tsukiyama checked his watch. Indeed, he was on time. He sat down so as not to break his routine and checked his surroundings. No boy anywhere. He opened his sketchbook and swallowed disappointment instead of letting it out in a form of a sigh.

Then, air moved behind him and the hairs at the back of his neck prickled. The heaviness of another body sank around his shoulders as he felt a warm trickle of breath on his cheek. The hand touching the page with the boy’s portrait trembled in confusion, both nervous and excited. Tsukiyama tilted his head slightly to the right and that very profile, which haunted both his dreams _and_ pages of his sketchbook, was merely inches away.

The boy’s eyes were fixed on the page Tsukiyama was caressing. Tsukiyama forgot how to breathe. Was breathing even necessary? If he inhaled, he would surely miss a moment of this divine encounter.

Finally – _finally_ – the boy spoke: “Is it alright to draw someone without their permission?”


	2. Chapter 2

Tsukiyama closed his sketchbook with enough haste to be deemed guilty; he was caught red handed so he put those very hands over the sketchbook as if that gesture itself was enough to protect it. The boy turned his attention away from Tsukiyama’s sketchbook to look him straight in the eyes; the boy’s gaze was piercing under his short eyelashes. Dark circles were like an upside-down crown under his eyes; consequence of reading all night, perhaps.

Tsukiyama fought back the urge to impress; to fix his hair and flash a charming smile. He decided to play the sincere card instead. “My apology won’t mean much at this point, I presume, but I really _do_ think you’re beautiful. So beautiful I couldn’t help myself.”

It took a few brief seconds for the boy to process the words and once he did, dust settled high on his lovely cheeks. He tucked a few strands of hair behind his ear. It revealed his delicate jaw. His eyes looked away briefly, in embarrassment perhaps, and Tsukiyama wondered if the boy wasn’t used to such intense compliments. Now _that_ was something Tsukiyama could work with.

“That doesn’t let you off the hook,” the boy said at last, his voice firm despite the treacherous flush that darkened his cheeks.

“It doesn’t,” Tsukiyama confirmed. “I apologize.”

The boy nodded, his lips pressed in a firm line. “Mind if I join you?” He asked and his fingers vaguely pointed at the seat next to Tsukiyama.

Tsukiyama scooted away immediately. “By all means.” He waited until the boy seated himself down. He kept a small distance between them which wasn’t as hard. He was noticeably smaller in built than Tsukiyama, but not feeble by any means. “May I know your name?”

“Should I trust a person who wears sunglasses on a cloudy day?”

Tsukiyama’s smile broke out of its confines. “You’re going to have to find out the hard way.”

The boy smiled, without revealing any teeth, as if Tsukiyama’s own smile forced it out of him. “Kaneki Ken.”

“Tsukiyama Shuu.” Tsukiyama offered his hand which the boy took without hesitation. His hand was cold and rough like pages of an old book but his fingers were long and delicate and _dangerous_ as they touched Tsukiyama’s wrist where his pulse resided. Tsukiyama prolonged the handshake as much as it was socially acceptable before he pulled his hand away.

“As for the sunglasses, I have complete _achromatopsia_ ” Tsukiyama explained and tapped his sunglasses. Confusion crossed Kaneki’s face so he added: “Total color blindness.”

“Oh,” Kaneki mouthed. “When I first noticed you were looking at me, I thought you wore sunglasses to make yourself less obvious.”

“Yet you figured me out,” Tsukiyama sing-songed. He noticed the lack of usual ‘ _I’m sorry’_ that tended to accompany his confession of being color-blind.  “When did you notice me?”

Kaneki looked down at his fingers as they played with the corner of the book resting on his thighs. “Two days ago. You pull your sunglasses down occasionally and I saw you out of the corner of my eye. I wasn’t sure if it were just a coincidence so I observed you yesterday to make sure.”

“I guess I’m not nearly as sneaky as I thought,” Tsukiyama’s poised tone, despite being the one caught with his fingers in the cookie jar, got Kaneki to look up again.

“Not at all I’m afraid,” Kaneki said and scratched the side of face.

Talking with Kaneki came easy, that much Tsukiyama could tell. Kaneki kept a safe distance, indeed, but he didn’t hesitate to speak his mind. Tsukiyama wanted to know how far he could take this conversation, and if Kaneki would follow.

“Kaneki,” Tsukiyama called wanting to taste his name on his tongue and Kaneki looked at him as if he wanted his name back. Tsukiyama reprimanded himself for being so hasty. “Would you like to see how I drew you?”

Kaneki’s face became an indifferent mask but his thumb was thumping on the cover of his book, like a countdown. Tsukiyama has already created a safe place in his mind where he’d store away tiny facts about Kaneki like his body language, taste in books and words he chose when he spoke.

“Alright,” Kaneki replied and scooted closer yet not close _enough_. Tsukiyama was used to being the magnet of attention yet Kaneki made him work for it from their very first exchange of words. “I’m a bit nervous,” Kaneki admitted and smiled reassuringly; Tsukiyama knew that smile was entirely for Kaneki’s own sake.

Tsukiyama was feeling jittery himself. He couldn’t hide the tremble of his fingertips as he flipped through the pages. Being an artist was always about exposing your wounds or blessings to the world and Tsukiyama has never one to shy away from a challenge or exposure. And yet. There he was, peering at Kaneki’s face so as not to miss the minutest change of expression.

When he reached the page with Kaneki’s first portrait, Kaneki’s eyes narrowed. That sketch was marked by Tsukiyama’s lack of restraint when he set his eyes on a new delicacy; Tsukiyama was shamelessly worshiping. Kaneki said nothing but he hadn’t torn his gaze from the page either. Tsukiyama flipped to the next page. That sketch was meant to study Kaneki’s face even if the distance between them wasn’t favorable. Tsukiyama flipped to the third and last sketch – that one was calm, methodical, precise. Tsukiyama knew what he was looking for and that Kaneki could give it to him.

“Do I really… look like _that_?” Kaneki asked. He seemed a little out of breath.

“You are beautiful,” Tsukiyama confirmed. Kaneki awarded him by looking into his eyes.

“You already said that…”

Tsukiyama wanted to leap out of his skin. Kaneki was so _adorable_ Tsukiyama could eat him right up and then trap that scene into one of his paintings.

“I still mean it.”

“You must want me to model for you so bad,” Kaneki said, voice all liquid confidence, but his fingers were fidgeting with his book – that must've been how all decisions were made.

“You have no idea,” Tsukiyama flashed one of his most refined killer smiles.

“What if I told you I’d do it?”

“You’d make me the happiest man alive.”

Kaneki… So elusive, so modest, so _unaware_ of his potential.

And Tsukiyama caught him.

* * *

 

Kaneki came to Tsukiyama’s room after his classes ended the very next day. He looked more ruffled than usual and the stark contrast of his black vest and bright hair had him looking like a fallen angel. Tsukiyama hadn’t made special preparation for Kaneki’s first time here; he brushed his hair, wore his favorite sweater, whose sleeves he pulled up over his elbows, with but a dash of perfume.

But he hadn’t touched the room. Painting brushes, tempera, watercolors, charcoal pencils, some empty canvases and others discarded or ruined by Tsukiyama’s lack of inspiration were all scattered around the room in what Tsukiyama called a _creative mess_. One large canvas stood untouched, merely illuminated by the light coming from the only window with the curtain drawn. On the opposite side of the room was a line of Tsukiyama’s award-winning pieces.

This was _Tsukiyama’s_ dark oasis and his muses were merely a passing light.

Kaneki discarded his backpack next to the door and stepped further into the room with careful steps as if he thought the half-darkness would devour him whole if he made one wrong move. He glanced around the room, soaking up every corner until his eyes landed on Tsukiyama’s finished paintings and a smile brushed past his lips. He approached the paintings. Tsukiyama followed after him, wanting to see what kind of expressions Kaneki would make while he was looking at them.

This corner was significantly darker than the rest of the room but light reached it just enough to make every brush stroke faintly visible. Kaneki’s lips opened just a crack and a tiny, awed gasp escaped them.

“You painted all these?”

“Yes, I have.”

“How long have you been painting?”

“For as long as I can remember.”

Kaneki wasn’t looking at Tsukiyama but Tsukiyama found Kaneki’s curiosity flattering.

“I’m not sure how it works, but how long have you been color-blind?”

Tsukiyama was taken aback.  Most people do not address his condition out of fear of being disrespectful and Tsukiyama found it odd since color-blindness was a part of him. He didn’t _want_ it yet he didn’t know anything else and often did he wish that he was accepted fully for who he was.

In other words, he was glad somebody had finally asked.

“All I _ever_ remember is seeing the world in black, white and shades of grey. When I was a child, I often wondered why I had so many crayons if they are all of one shade. I wondered why I had so many shirts when they were all the same. Am I boring you?” Tsukiyama asked mid-story, worried that Kaneki might not want to hear it in its entirety.

“No, please continue.”

Tsukiyama gave a brief smile and did just that. “One day – I think I was three – I was drawing in the garden. I always loved the moon, as narcissistic as it may sound, but I’ve been afraid to draw it. Yet that day I felt brave. My father was reading newspapers, paying me no attention. He never looked at any of my drawings, you see, he wanted me to be a lawyer.”

Tsukiyama waved his hand dismissively. “But I’m side-tracking now. Anyway, that day I drew the moon; that beautiful, large, blood-curdling moon. So I got up from my seat and stumbled to my father’s side to show him my finest creation yet. Maybe he’d be proud this time. But when he looked up from his newspaper I’ve seen horror unravel on his face, the kind I’d never forget.

He said ‘ _Shuu, the moon is not purple_ ’. I was confused; I drew the moon exactly as I saw it. ‘ _This is how the moon looks, father. I watch it every night_ ’. I tried to convince my father that this was really the moon I saw and the harder I tried the more my father looked like he was about to cry.”

Tsukiyama paused to catch his breath.

“As it turned out, my father was aware that there were high chances of me being color-blind, yet he chose to ignore it. His only son couldn’t possibly be ‘ _defective’_ ,” Tsukiyama felt himself grow uneasy with disgust but he pushed the feeling away. “It’s in our genes, you see. Co lour-blindness mostly affects males, it’s a – what’s it called – a recessive gene. My grandfather was color-blind, his son, my father, wasn’t. And here I am.”

Tsukiyama finished. He was so engrossed in talking that he hadn’t noticed Kaneki was staring at him; his expression was soft and pure like an unused brush. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something but he closed them and gave his attention back to the paintings.

It was odd, Tsukiyama thought, how Kaneki held himself back; he didn’t look the part, but he might just be a little socially awkward. It was adorable, Tsukiyama concluded, how he seemed to struggle in order to find the right thing to say. Tsukiyama wouldn’t mind even if Kaneki said the wrong thing.

Kaneki reached out to one of paintings, his fingers extending just an inch, but then he pulled his hand back. Tsukiyama felt a smile tugging at his lips.

“It must’ve been difficult,” Kaneki said, voice barely a whisper. He seemed to be lost in thought yet still trying to hold the conversation. Tsukiyama caught Kaneki’s cowardly hand with his own and lightly pressed it on the painting’s surface. He heard Kaneki’s breath catch in his throat but he didn’t try to pull away.

“It _was_ difficult, at first. There are many things I cannot do because I can’t see colors. School was a nightmare with all those color-coded pie charts and graphs, I cannot drive and daylight hurts my eyes. There are also chances I might completely lose my vision one day,” Kaneki turned to him again when Tsukiyama said that. “But I don’t mind. I’ve learned that the sky is blue and the grass is green, but when I paint, I prefer to use unlabeled crayons, tempera, watercolors and draw it all how I _feel_ is right.”

“I think your art is breath-taking,” Kaneki interrupted, fast and he might’ve blushed even but Tsukiyama couldn’t see. “It feels alive.”

Tsukiyama’s smile only widened. “ _Do_ elaborate on that.”

Kaneki looked back at the paintings. “You are painting our world yet it feels like another world entirely. I like it, especially that one,” Kaneki said and pointed towards the painting next to the one he was touching. Tsukiyama let go of Kaneki’s hand, reminiscing the disappearance of its warmth almost immediately.

The painting Kaneki was pointing at was the garden at Tsukiyama estate. He used up a lot of paint that day and he remembered Chie told him it was so colorful it reminded her of a runaway fairy tale.

“I’m glad you do,” Tsukiyama said. “It’s one of my favorites.” Tsukiyama realized that he must’ve been staring at the painting so he tore himself away and went back to the front of the room. Kaneki followed suit. “Enough storytelling, you’re here to be my model, aren’t you?”

Kaneki stopped and scratched the side of his face, a nervous smile was poking its shy head on his lips. “I was wondering if you could paint something else today instead. I’ll watch.”

_Oh, he is shy._

_Exquisite_ , Tsukiyama couldn’t help but grin at the silent confession.

“Did you have something in mind?” Tsukiyama inquired.

Kaneki fidgeted a little, but he steeled himself enough to answer: “I was wondering if I could read a passage from a book, barring any color mentions, and you’d paint it how you ‘ _feel is right_ ’.”

Tsukiyama took a liking to the idea. He had never been asked to paint something like this before. It was in this moment that he realized he’d have to be _very_ patient with Kaneki.

“That sounds lovely. Let’s do it.”

Kaneki walked over to his backpack and pulled out a book. It looked loved, that book, with its worn covers and spine. After he had let some more light into the room, Tsukiyama pulled up a chair for Kaneki, right next to the canvas, and Kaneki sat down. There was a tiny bookmark sticking out and Kaneki tugged at it. The pages opened by themselves.

Before he did anything else, Kaneki looked up at Tsukiyama, who had already prepared tubes of unlabeled tempera and brushes of various thickness and size.

“Your eyes are red,” Kaneki stated.

Tsukiyama touched the skin under his right eye. “ _Oh_ , these; these are Red Central Contact Lenses. They make my eyes less sensitive to daylight.”

“Why don’t you wear them outside as well?”

“Don’t you think sunglasses look more stylish?” Tsukiyama beamed. In reality, sunglasses were more comfortable to wear than contacts.

Kaneki shook his head and turned his gaze to the book. “I like being able to see your eyes,” Kaneki murmured and before Tsukiyama could add anything else, he continued: “I’ll read the passage now.”

And did he read in that tender, low voice of his that loved every word he read. Tsukiyama got so lost in the sound that he had forgotten to listen _what_ Kaneki was reading. Kaneki had to re-read the passage two more times before Tsukiyama fully caught the extent of the scene. What Kaneki read was a vivid description of a bird cage in which humans lived in harmony until people started vanishing without trace one by one. It sounded like a story which inevitably ended in tragedy.

Tsukiyama closed his eyes and envisioned the scene.

Then his hand moved on its own.

He was vaguely aware of Kaneki’s presence, not only because Kaneki barely moved a muscle, but because once his hand was on the canvas, the canvas was all that existed. It took some time to complete the painting; Tsukiyama asked Kaneki to read the passage a few times again just to make sure he was going in the right direction. He managed not to smear his pants but his hands were a mess by the time he had finished.

“ _Voilà_ , _mon cher_ ,” Tsukiyama exclaimed and put the brush down on the stained newspaper below his feet. Kaneki looked at the painting, his eyes skimming over every part of it. His palms curled into fists on his knees.

“Can I… Can I take it with me?”

Tsukiyama’s heart swelled in his chest. “Of course. Once it dries, however.”

Kaneki smiled. This must’ve been the first time he had genuinely smiled. Good. It meant he was lowering his guard. “Thank you.”

“Will you come again on Monday?”

“May I?”

“Of course,” Tsukiyama confirmed. “Let’s exchange email-addresses and numbers so we can contact each other.”

Kaneki hesitated briefly but then he pulled out his phone.

* * *

 

The weekend couldn’t pass by any slower. He was rolling on his bed in his pajama for the majority of Saturday so Kanae took him out for a drive around the city on Sunday. Kanae asked him about what made him impatient yet so giddy at the same time and all Tsukiyama could say that his muse this time was the most delicious so far – but a hard catch.

“Nothing worth having comes easy,” Kanae told him, and Tsukiyama was positive he was talking to himself. He let it slide.

* * *

 

On Monday, Kaneki came without fail. He brought a different book with him. This time, the book looked less worn but Kaneki still held it as if anything short of kindness would break its spine.

“You really like books, don’t you?” Tsukiyama commented. Kaneki sat down and tilted his head.

“Well, it would be quite unfortunate if I were in the Literature department and hated books, don’t you think?”

“Indeed.”

Kaneki pulled his chair closer to Tsukiyama. Tsukiyama had to pretend he wasn’t elated by it.

“Do you like books?” Kaneki asked.

“I love all art. I believe it’s in human nature to love art, because it’s in human nature to be cruel.”

“What do you mean?” Kaneki uttered another question. Tsukiyama delighted in having Kaneki’s undivided attention to himself.

“Writing, painting, composing, it’s all about trapping places, people, sounds and feelings onto a piece of paper where they can only be set free by the imagination of another.”

“I don’t think that’s cruel.”

“Then you might just be the cruelest of them all.”

Tsukiyama grabbed his paintbrush and waited for Kaneki to read him the passage but Kaneki was too busy looking at Tsukiyama’s face. Tsukiyama touched his fringe and tried to smooth it out of habit. Kaneki licked his pale lips but his keen eyes never moved away from Tsukiyama’s face. The tension between them was almost palpable and Tsukiyama wondered if it would be alright to—

Kaneki’s gaze abruptly fell down to his book and he began flipping through pages. Tsukiyama’s throat clenched and stung in disappointment but he forcibly swallowed the feeling down.

When Kaneki cleared his throat, Tsukiyama prepared himself to transfer his feelings and Kaneki’s expectations onto canvas. It grew and changed, this silence and understanding between them; they were fundamentally different as people but the passion that made them both tick was the same.

Tsukiyama could barely wait to get a taste of Kaneki; couldn’t wait to capture him in a painting.

* * *

 

Kaneki was soft; so soft he melted in Tsukiyama’s arms. Kaneki’s smaller, lithe body was pressed taut against Tsukiyama’s, grinding at a slow, deliberate pace that mercilessly set every nerve in Tsukiyama’s body on fire. Tsukiyama didn’t notice Kaneki was stark naked until his fingertips traced the delicate trail of Kaneki’s spine down to the curve of his firm ass. Tsukiyama gave his ass a little squeeze and Kaneki’s muscles twitched.

Kaneki pressed his forehead against Tsukiyama’s and held his face in both his palms. His thumb caressed Tsukiyama’s cheek and Tsukiyama thought about kissing those pretty pale lips of his. If only Kaneki dared do it himself…

Instead, Kaneki’s lips pressed a closed-mouthed kiss to each of Tsukiyama’s eyelids, then the bridge of his nose, his cheeks. He was so, _so_ tender with Tsukiyama that it made his heart fill to the brim with fondness. Tsukiyama wondered if this was how hearts broke but Kaneki looked at him with such affection that there was no doubt it Tsukiyama’s mind that he’d ever break his heart.

This was Kaneki, his precious, brand new, little muse. Like this, Tsukiyama could—

Tsukiyama’s eyes snapped open and pulled the rest of his consciousness awake. The shock of lonely reality was so cruel that he was forced to take a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

There was a stir in his lower body and when he opened his blanket his eyes fell on the bulge in his pyjama pants.

He sighed. “Bad habits sure _are_ terrifying.”

He closed the blanket – an act of self-punishment – and thought about patience until he begrudgingly fell back asleep.  

* * *

 

Chie came by when Kaneki texted Tsukiyama he couldn’t make it. She had been pouting about not finding out who Kaneki Ken was before Tsukiyama did. She didn’t talk about it, however, so Tsukiyama didn’t mention it either.

“This is unusual.” Chie peeked over the focused line of Tsukiyama’s shoulders as he was finishing up a painting he and Kaneki failed to complete the day before. “Your fascination usually lasts for one painting only.”

Tsukiyama smiled and considered pinching her cheek. Too bad his fingers were stained with paint. “Well, I hope this one lasts for at least _twelve_.”

“But you do this _thing_ , you know. You throw people away once you’ve had your fill. Nobody likes being thrown away. That’s why you end up muse-less and moping around.”

Tsukiyama ignored her even if she was right – or rather, _because_ she was right. He could tell Chie was rolling her eyes in defeat.

“Have you come up with an idea for the competition? There are only two weeks left.”

“Something’s cooking here, yes,” Tsukiyama said and tapped his temple.

Chie didn’t seem convinced. “ _Is_ it now?”

“You wound me,” Tsukiyama feigned hurt.

“Not as much as you wound yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for leaving kudos and comments; I'm glad you're enjoying this story as much as I enjoy writing it!


	3. Chapter 3

The space next to the doors, where Tsukiyama has stacked chairs and desks he didn’t require, has become a place for Kaneki to leave his bag. Tsukiyama never cleaned the room much, save for his painting equipment, but he started making sure Kaneki’s spot was pristine and ready to guard his bag at any time.

When Kaneki arrived, he pulled the doors open with a breathy little ‘ _I’m coming in’_ and dropped his bag down without hesitation before closing the doors behind him. He was clad in darkness again, and Tsukiyama wondered if Kaneki teased him like this intentionally, made himself a delicacy Tsukiyama wasn’t allowed to feast on. Was Kaneki aware that those dark clothes do wonders for his light complexion and white hair, and did he use this awareness as a weapon? Or was he not aware and that innocence only added to the wonder that was Kaneki Ken?

Either way, Tsukiyama greeted him with a smile; he had been going through his brushes to decide which ones needed replacing but now that task was for another day. He waited until Kaneki pulled out a book from his bag and was already tittering with excitement at the mere sight of it. Kaneki always kept him on the tips of his toes.

But Kaneki just _stood_ there, by his bag, his book held close to his chest as if to protect his beating heart. His gaze was wavering, wandering about the room; left, right, anywhere _but_ at Tsukiyama. Was there something weighting on his mind? Could he share the burden with Tsukiyama?

At long last, Kaneki opened his mouth: “I wanted to ask you for a while, but you _do_ know your hair is purple?”

 _No that’s not it,_ Tsukiyama’s mind rebelled but the word _patience_ echoed in his thoughts like a prayer.

Tsukiyama tugged at his hair absent-mindedly, indulging Kaneki’s curiosity. “Remember the story about the purple moon? I showed that old picture to my cousin and asked him to dye my hair that colour.”

Kaneki chuckled. It was a curious sound, almost as if it revealed something deeply personal.  “Somehow, that sounds _very_ like you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Kaneki was still _just_ standing, like a forgotten statue of a lost Greek God. He seemed to be stalling but the previous exchange has, much to Tsukiyama’s relief, made the line of his shoulders less tense. He cleared his throat.

“ _Tsukiyama_ ,” he called as if to make sure Tsukiyama listening. It hurt Tsukiyama that he had to check. He should know that when they were alone in this room, his presence always weighted heavy, tauntingly on Tsukiyama’s mind, his body.

Kaneki once again fell silent, probably fighting himself on a private battlefield of his mind and once he pressed his lips together and nodded to himself he tucked the book back in the bag.

 _Oh?_ Tsukiyama felt elated, electrified all the way to the tips of his fingers.

Kaneki’s gaze fell on Tsukiyama, fierce determination reflected in his clear eyes. “Tsukiyama, would you like to draw _me_ today?”

Tsukiyama could open the window and scream his victory at the world. He tried to convey that feeling with a grin.

“Of course. That is all I ever wanted,” Tsukiyama admitted and approached Kaneki like a beast moving in for a kill. Kaneki barely flinched under his gaze, nothing alike a deer in the headlights. Instead, he gave Tsukiyama a bashful smile, his finger already scratching at the side of his face.

“I guess painting scenes from my books wasn’t particularly interesting for you…”

“Oh, no, it _was_ interesting. I have never done something like that before. It was a new experience and I will always treasure it,” Tsukiyama said, and it was the undeniable truth. He could only hope Kaneki could recognize it. “But, it has to be _you_. You are my closing act, my—“

“—I think I understand…” Kaneki interrupted. The way he averted his gaze to hide his diffidence tugged at Tsukiyama’s heartstrings. Tsukiyama slid behind Kaneki and gave him a light push, his hand ghosting over the small of Kaneki’s back.

“Come,” Tsukiyama said and led him to the chair next to the canvas. Kaneki sat down and folded his palms over his knees. Tsukiyama assumed his place in front of the canvas and knew what he wanted to use to paint without having to mull over it much. He pulled out his sketchbook and a pack of charcoal pencils.

“You’re not going to use the canvas?” Kaneki inquired.

“No, I want to get the feel of your face first,” Tsukiyama explained. “Without the awkward distance and _trying_ to pretend I am not staring.” Kaneki opened his mouth as if to say something, but Tsukiyama continued: “You know, I was in the middle of a drawing block before I saw you. But as soon as my eyes landed on you, I knew I’d have to take you out of your world and into mine. And mine is like this,” Tsukiyama pulled out one charcoal pencil and lifted it for Kaneki to see. “I know _this_ is what suits you the best. Shades of grey, just how I know them.”

“Everything you say sounds so… _premeditated_ ,” Kaneki noticed. He was being careful, Tsukiyama could tell, not to allow himself to fall for the trap Tsukiyama has put so much effort setting up.

It was the honorable thing to do to admit Kaneki was right: “It _is_. You are my biggest catch so far, after all.” Tsukiyama put his sketchbook on his thighs and pushed his chair closer to Kaneki, close enough to be able to reach out and touch his face. With both his palms hovering on either side of Kaneki’s face, he asked: “May I?”

Of course, it wasn’t necessary to touch Kaneki’s face to be able to draw him, but Tsukiyama was dying to see how far he could push Kaneki without being rejected. Once he was rejected, he would back off.

It was to Tsukiyama’s absolute delight when Kaneki nodded so abruptly that mischievous strands of his hair fell into complete disarray over his face. He looked like he came from a battlefield, a war won.

Tsukiyama hugged Kaneki’s cheeks with his palms and, as if on cue, the memories of the dream played on repeat in Tsukiyama’s mind. He held his breath and stroked his thumb across Kaneki’s features, feeling the bone structure, the flutter of his eyelashes, fully aware that Kaneki was watching his every move.

“You are going to inspire my best painting yet. It is sure to win the competition,” Tsukiyama spoke to Kaneki, but the words were meant to encourage himself.

“The competition?” Kaneki asked. Tsukiyama pulled his hands away with realization he hadn’t spoken to Kaneki about it yet. He sat upright in his chair and opened his sketchbook.

“Yes. In thirteen days. Young artists from different wards compete with but a single painting. The winner gets a Young Artist Award and recognition.”

“I’m feeling nervous all of a sudden.”

Tsukiyama beamed and tapped the charcoal pencil on his sketchbook. “Don’t be. All you have to do is be who you are and trust me. And promise you’d come watch me compete.”

“I promise.”

Tsukiyama gave one last smile before he switched into business mode. “Tilt your head to the right,” Tsukiyama instructed. He crossed his long legs and didn’t miss how Kaneki’s eyes flickered downward at the movement. “Open your mouth a bit. Good.”

Daylight fell over his shoulders and onto the paper and Tsukiyama began sketching. The distance was favorable, allowing Tsukiyama to catch all that was intricate and beautiful on Kaneki’s face; his thin lips opened just a sigh; his eyes that went from piercing to mesmerizing in a blink; his short eyelashes that fluttered with the sway of his emotions; the lovely curve of his jaw that ended with his round chin; his small, shy ear that was hidden in his straight, white hair.

Tsukiyama had to wonder if, by merely having the opportunity to meet Kaneki, he had already spent his entire lifetime of luck.

“Don’t move,” Tsukiyama said when Kaneki turned his head to look at Tsukiyama. Tsukiyama reached out and touched Kaneki’s chin to fix the angle of his face. His carelessness and eagerness to touch Kaneki again transferred some charcoal on Kaneki’s pale skin. “Sorry. I got some on your face,” Tsukiyama apologized and shook his arm until his sleeve fell over his wrist where he caught it with his fingers.

“Where? _Here_?” Kaneki asked just when Tsukiyama began wiping the smudged spot. Kaneki encircled Tsukiyama’s working wrist with his fingers as if the same craving inspired them both to act.

This unexpected boldness of Kaneki’s caught Tsukiyama unprepared. Their eyes bore into one another, daring the other to move first. It was then that Tsukiyama realized Kaneki was indeed no deer, he was a beast also – teeth ready to sink into flesh if necessary. Tsukiyama wanted to know what kind of mark he could leave on Kaneki if he—

The translucent veil of their shared moment was broken when the doors violently slid open.

It was Kanae in his coat, his eyes widening in bewilderment as they landed on Tsukiyama and Kaneki. He pulled himself together when Tsukiyama stopped touching Kaneki’s face.

“Shuu, I’ve sent you multiple messages,” Kanae informed Tsukiyama but his eyes were fixed on Kaneki.

“I’m sorry; my phone is set on silent,” Tsukiyama said and got up to reach for his phone that he had left laying on one of the desks. He watched Kanae out of the corner of his eye as he walked deeper into the room until he was standing above Kaneki.

Kanae took a few strands of Kaneki’s hair between his fingers and touched them as if testing out the texture and softness. Tsukiyama saw Kaneki stiffen but he didn’t seem intimated.

“So, this is your new toy?” Kanae muttered the question but Tsukiyama didn’t miss it.

“Muse. My new _muse_ ,” Tsukiyama corrected. Kanae let go of Kaneki’s hair.

“So long as you’re not fooling around too much…”

Kaneki got up hastily and turned to Kanae. Kanae stood before him, proud and defiant, and Kaneki returned the favor. He bowed slightly and said: “It was nice to meet you.” Then he turned to Tsukiyama. “Let’s continue another day.”

“Of course,” Tsukiyama said, aware that the situation was causing Kaneki discomfort. It was the last thing Tsukiyama wanted.

Kaneki picked up his bag and left the room without closing the doors.

Tsukiyama, oddly enough, wasn’t upset. The screen of his phone lit up to a couple of messages from Kanae. He said he had made plans with friends from his seminar and wanted to know if Tsukiyama would go home now or wait longer until Kanae had finished with his outing.

Tsukiyama turned to Kanae, his tight-lipped smile doing a poor job at concealing the disappointment he felt. “I guess I’ll go home early today.”

That sentence was the beginning of an unpleasant ride home.

* * *

 

Tsukiyama wasn’t surprised when he received a text message notifying him of Kaneki’s absence. He must’ve taken Kanae’s actions to heart and all Tsukiyama could do is believe in him and wait him out.

Tsukiyama noticed it was odd not having him around; Kaneki’s presence has already stained this entire room. It was in the air: his smell, his words from days before. Tsukiyama was spoiled to the core by Kaneki’s attention. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it but it was a lot like being lost in a forest at night, then finding an illuminated path that led out only to stray again.

This time, Tsukiyama had to focus even if he was lost. What he could do now is plan out the piece he would submit for the competition. He already had an idea, it just needed fleshing out. And he knew just the way to do that.

Chie, whom he had promptly called when Kaneki couldn’t be here, was twirling around the room, scoping for clues.

“Come here, Little Mouse,” Tsukiyama called for her and she stopped twirling in an instant. Her camera hung around her neck and clanked as she walked. Tsukiyama pulled out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to her. “Can you get me these? Labeled with colors,” he requested.

Chie raised an eyebrow as she unfolded the paper but once she’d examined the contents, her lips stretched into a wide grin. “Tsukiyama Shuu, your genius is going to consume you one day. You’ll go _completely_ mad.”

Tsukiyama was overcome with glee. He knew she’d find the idea compelling. “And what will you do when I go mad, Little Mouse?”

“Take a picture of it, naturally.”

“Make sure to capture my _good_ mad angle.”

“Of course.”

* * *

 

Kaneki appeared on Friday and it was all Tsukiyama could ask for to see Kaneki before the weekend rolled around.

Tsukiyama didn’t waste a breath to apologize. “About the other day, Kaneki, I’m sorry we made you uncomfortable.”

Kaneki shook his head. “It’s alright. I just wasn’t expecting such… hostility,” Kaneki observed. He wasn’t wrong; that was one of the reasons Tsukiyama kept his muses from meeting Kanae. But that was an issue for another day. “Was that…?”

“My cousin, Kanae, yes.”

Kaneki didn’t say it but Tsukiyama knew what he was thinking. ‘Why _is his hair color the same as yours? Do you know about that?_ ’ The truth was, Tsukiyama loved Kanae and accepted his infatuation, but he couldn’t reciprocate it nor did they share the same love. He didn’t see it necessary to address any of it in front of Kaneki.

A simple exchange of gazes was enough to convey that message and Kaneki dropped the topic.

Before Kaneki could move towards his chair, Tsukiyama called: “Wait. I have something for you.” Tsukiyama reached for his bag and pulled out a thick book with a dark cover that was completely worn out from both time and use. He gave it to Kaneki.

“Here,” Tsukiyama spoke. Kaneki took the book in his hands and looked it over curiously. “I looked for it in my library yesterday, thinking you might want to read it. I think it’ll suit your tastes. It was my favorite book when I was a kid.”

Kaneki flipped the first few pages open when Tsukiyama went into panic mode.

“ _Oh_! Perhaps you’ve read it before! I haven’t thought about that…” Tsukiyama ranted, angry at himself. He should’ve asked first! But that would’ve ruined the surprise!

Kaneki, unbeknownst of Tsukiyama’s inner turmoil, closed the book and placed his open palm over the cover. “No, I haven’t read it. But I’d love to.” He kneelt down and was careful when he put the book away in his bag. Tsukiyama had no doubt in his mind that Kaneki would take good care of it.

Tsukiyama watched Kaneki as he closed his bag, got up and took a few steps to close the distance between them.

Kaneki looked up at him; such tenderness has filled his eyes that the difference in their heights seemed insignificant. He hooked his fingers on Tsukiyama’s sweater and tugged at it ever so lightly.

“Thank you.”

Tsukiyama didn’t know what came over him.

 _All_ that self-discipline yet he reached for Kaneki’s face and had him standing on the tips of his toes. Kaneki looked him in the eyes, his body following Tsukiyama’s instructions. When Kaneki’s fingers wrapped around Tsukiyama’s wrists, the gesture was neither discouraging nor hesitant. Kaneki _had_ to have a thing for touching Tsukiyama’s pulse; as if he’s trying to say ‘ _I have your blood, your life in my hands so be careful what you do._ ’ The thought fluttered down to the pit of Tsukiyama’s stomach.

Tsukiyama brought his face down and pressed his forehead to Kaneki’s. Kaneki’s fingers squeezed Tsukiyama’s wrist and when he opened his mouth just a crack, Tsukiyama swallowed his sigh with a kiss. Kaneki’s lithe body arched into Tsukiyama’s as if the distance between them offended him.

Tsukiyama found he was becoming ravenous by the minute: his teeth clacked on Kaneki’s in their haste; he nipped at Kaneki’s bottom lip adamant to ruin the smooth flesh; his tongue devoured and claimed the inside of Kaneki’s mouth. Tsukiyama couldn’t kiss him gently at all yet Kaneki was only pressing himself closer to Tsukiyama as if urged by his desperate kisses.

“Around my waist,” Tsukiyama murmured; his voice was a husky whisper.

Kaneki understood. As Tsukiyama lifted Kaneki up, he wrapped his legs around Tsukiyama’s waist. It was a messy little stumble, the attempt to get Kaneki seated on one of the desks, but Tsukiyama managed to do so without hurting Kaneki or himself.

Kaneki wasn’t as soft as Tsukiyama had imagined. He was all taut flesh and bony angles underneath his shirt. That firmness was reassuring – Tsukiyama couldn’t _break_ him. Tsukiyama’s hands were cold against Kaneki’s warm skin. Goose-flesh rose under Tsukiyama’s palms as he trailed them across Kaneki’s ribs, his stomach and all the way to his small, erect nipples. Tsukiyama pinched one of them and Kaneki reacted by pulling him closer by the waist.

Tsukiyama’s head was spinning; the sound of the two of them so close, so _wanting_ filled his ears.

Gasps Kaneki couldn’t swallow down escaped his wet, bruised lips. Tsukiyama kissed all of them, rendering Kaneki breathless enough to pull away, his eyes glazed over and heavy-lidded.

Is this what it took to _unravel_ Kaneki Ken? If so, Tsukiyama wanted to do it every waking hour of his day.

“Don’t you have a competition to paint for…?” Kaneki’s efforts at teasing fell short due to his lack of breath. Tsukiyama found it charming all the same.

“I do, don’t I?” Tsukiyama mouthed at the crook of Kaneki’s neck. He could forget himself in the way Kaneki shivered whenever he nipped at the skin there - all the more reasons to do it. Tsukiyama pressed open-mouthed kisses down the slope of Kaneki’s neck until that pesky little shirt of his got in the way.

Kaneki went eerily still when Tsukiyama began to peel his shirt off. Tsukiyama pulled away to see what was wrong.

“This is not the place,” Kaneki whispered, reluctance showing its ugly head. One look in his eyes and Tsukiyama could tell that he didn’t want to stop but his reason had won.

“Or the time,” Tsukiyama confirmed.

 _This is okay. This is something_ , Tsukiyama reassured himself as Kaneki unwrapped his legs from his waist and jumped off the desk. The lack of pressure and friction had Tsukiyama feeling lonely and cold.

Kaneki cleared his throat, his gaze falling on the canvas in the corner. It was turned away from the doors and the desks where they were standing at.

“That wasn’t here two days ago.”

Tsukiyama smiled at Kaneki’s attempt to distract them both as he pulled Kaneki’s shirt down; he can’t be going around looking disheveled like that.

“It wasn’t. That’s my work in progress for the competition.”

“You started working on it? May I see?” Kaneki’s eyes burned so bright that Tsukiyama had almost mistaken them for daylight.

“I’m afraid not. I want you to see it only when it’s completed,” Tsukiyama said and walked to his chair where his sketchbook laid. “Come. Let me draw you again.”

Kaneki’s lips were _almost_ a pout but he walked over nevertheless. His hair was sticking out at odd angles, his eyes begged Tsukiyama for kisses and his lips were glistening and inviting…

“But before we begin, please fix yourself,” Tsukiyama stated, his smirk shamelessly suggestive . “You are _distracting_.”

Kaneki rolled his eyes but reached up to fix his hair anyway. “Look who’s talking…”

* * *

 

Tsukiyama found the coming weekend even less bearable than the last one, even more so since Kanae was avoiding him. The only time they exchanged a couple of superficial words was when they were in the car or during dinner when Tsukiyama’s Father prompted them with questions.

“Shuu, how is your painting progressing?” Mirumo asked during the Saturday night’s dinner.

“Marvelously, Father. I came up with an idea you have never seen before,” Tsukiyama said. He saw Kanae peering at him from across the table.

“Good. I’ll be looking forward to adding another award to our display,” Mirumo said as he used a napkin to wipe his mouth. “You are the pride of Tsukiyama family.”

Or so his Father said. In truth, he had never come to any of his exhibitions or competitions. Mirumo Tsukiyama didn’t care for the process, he only wanted the result. If that was so, Tsukiyama would give it to him.

After dinner, Tsukiyama followed after Kanae to his room.

“Mind if I join you?” Tsukiyama asked merely as a courtesy. Kanae held his doors open wide for Tsukiyama to pass.

“Of course.”

Kanae’s room was spacious, enveloped in dark walls and the faint smell of rose fragrance. Kanae disappeared in his walk-in closet and returned wearing a nightgown. Tsukiyama could tell he wasn’t _angry_ per se; rather, he was hurt. That was one thing about Kanae and his feelings that Tsukiyama has never learned how to mend.

Kanae sat in front of the mirror and pulled out a hair brush. Tsukiyama stole it from his hands.

“Allow me,” Tsukiyama insisted. Kanae straightened in his chair and observed Tsukiyama in the mirror. Tsukiyama ran his fingers down Kanae’s soft hair. Kane took such good care of it.

Tsukiyama brushed his hair gently, in silence, and waited for Kanae to speak up.

He didn’t have to wait for more than five brushstrokes.

“I’m sorry for the other day. I didn’t mean to scare the boy away,” Kanae apologized. He gulped and continued, “Are you mad at me?”

“I am not mad at you, Kanae. You are irreplaceable to me,” Tsukiyama talked as he smoothed Kanae’s hair with the hairbrush. He steeled himself to say the next sentence: “Like a little brother.”

Kanae’s head fell but his lips were forcing a smile.

“I’m glad,” Kanae murmured and there was nothing else Tsukiyama could do.

* * *

 

“I know you’re aware of the fact that your attachment to your human models is inherently sexual in nature, but this time it’s… _different_ ,” Chie ranted. She had come by only to drop off what Tsukiyama had asked of her a couple of days ago. He put those precious cans of paint away; he won’t be needing them  for a few more days.

“What do you mean?” Tsukiyama inquired. He wasn’t fully engaged in conversation with her; the fact that Kaneki was going to arrive soon was lingering in the corners of his mind. Chatting away only served to make the time go by faster.

Chie shrugged. She brushed her fingers over sketches of Kaneki in Tsukiyama’s sketchbook. “This looks real to me. Like,” she paused, searching for proper words. Tsukiyama was curious about what she’d come up with. “Like _love_.”

Her reply had Tsukiyama bursting into laughter, borderline hysterical. He couldn’t contain it if he tried.

“Oh, _Chie_. My Little Mouse. My _silly,_ little mouse. Love is such a heavy word. I do _want_ him but I don’t plan to _keep_ him. Just like food, everything expires and everything disappears once you devour it.”

“You only say that because you don’t know what it will be like once he’s gone for good,” she said and looked away from his sketchbook but in the very next moment her eyes fell on the door and her face gave away a hint of horror. Tsukiyama followed her gaze where it landed on a figure standing in the door frame.

It was Kaneki, in all his ruffled, introverted, _adorable_ glory.

Yet his face has darkened, the corners of his lips pulled down and the sight of it made Tsukiyama’s stomach drop. The paint brush fell out of Tsukiyama’s hands and as it hit the floor with a lonely thud, Tsukiyama muttered: “ _Kaneki_ …”

Kaneki bit his lower lip, fixed his expression and bowed politely.

And then he was no more, his light left the room in a rush and closed the doors behind him.

“I guess you’ll find out what it’s like being without him sooner than expected,” Chie said but Tsukiyama didn’t quite hear her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go! Thank you all for your continuous support and comments. I'm always happy to know your thoughts and impressions.


	4. Chapter 4

Tsukiyama felt so listless he worried his spine would detach and curl cowardly on the ground unless he kept himself busy with painting. He even wore his favorite sweater – light and warm with big, bold _TRÈS FATIGUÉ_ splayed across his chest – to help him feel more comfortable in his skin. His competition piece has begun to take shape with Tsukiyama’s careful molding but there was barely any heart behind his brush strokes.

Chie was there with him, occupying the space that used to be Kaneki’s on better days.

Tsukiyama pulled out his phone and found that there were no new messages. He has sent at least twelve messages to Kaneki since yesterday and none were returned. Tsukiyama was befuddled; what could have offended Kaneki so much that he had decided to abandon him with no words. Tsukiyama had only spoken the truth, as he always did, yet there was a void where his heart used to be and it sucked up every rational thought he might’ve had.  

Only his hand moved to his bidding.

Tsukiyama put his phone on the floor.

Once Chie was satisfied with taking a few pictures of Tsukiyama’s profile, flash off, she approached him from behind.

“How come you’re painting in black and white? I thought you’d use luminous paint you had me buy,” she commented, leaning over Tsukiyama’s shoulder. Her head was so small Tsukiyama had to wonder where all that curiosity could possibly fit.

“I will use it,” Tsukiyama said tersely.

Chie pouted, her cheek became so inflated with air that it almost touched Tsukiyama’s. She was about to explode.

“Kaneki is not here today. You really did it this time,” she said, her intent to jab him with what he didn’t want to hear as clear as day that Tsukiyama shied away from so much. “Don’t shoot the gun if you can’t handle the recoil.”

“Little Mouse, I’m not in the mood for…” Tsukiyama quipped, voice grave, and twirled his brush between his fingers, splaying paint all over his designer pants. “ _This_.”

“I’m sorry but as your only friend, it is my duty to tell you that you’re an absolute mess.”

“I’m not—“

“And you clearly have no intention of doing anything about it.”

“I have tried. Kaneki does not reply to my messages,” Tsukiyama sighed and his gaze fell on his phone, wistful. “I’ll just have to wait. Kaneki always gravitates back to me.”

Chie crossed her arms and moved to stand in front of the canvas, blocking Tsukiyama’s path. Tsukiyama’s expression hardened, his jaw set in defiance. He rested his wrist on his knee and some paint dripped from his brush to the floor covered in newspaper.

“Not this time. You hurt him. You can’t just sit this one out like it has nothing to do with you.”

“How did _I_ hurt him?”

Chie raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to _quote_ _you_ on that one?”

Tsukiyama let out the most defeated sigh yet. He brought his free hand to his face and rubbed his closed eyelids. “I don’t know, Chie… I don’t know.”

Chie let her hands fall to her sides. “Remember how we first met?” Tsukiyama nodded, his eyes still set on darkness behind his eyelids. “I was walking home from school, by your mansion as usual, when I spotted a tiny boy, wearing a pair of sunglasses too big for his face. He was crouched over a flower, crying.”

Tsukiyama remembered. That was right after his medical examination and people around him telling him that what he saw isn’t what was really there. It struck him right in his vulnerable, little heart. He spent a lot of time gazing at that flower until tears started pouring out of his eyes. They wouldn’t stop. That’s when Chie called out to him.

Tsukiyama thought she looked ridiculous in her generic uniform and a big camera around her thin neck. He wondered if her neck would break. She looked at him curiously, like he was a small animal, and snapped a picture.

“When you saw me take a picture of you, you got up and approached the gates,” Chie continued. “You said, all teary eyed: ‘ _I will not be stopped_.’ I didn’t know anything about you but I remember thinking how desperately I wanted to see how far you would go.”

He lifted her gaze at her and she gave him a reassuring smile. He smiled back at her, out of reflex; her smile was irresistible, it prompted you to return it.

“I still do,” Chie said.

She put her hands on either side of Tsukiyama’s face and leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. He didn’t notice how warm and sweaty he was until her cold hands touched his moist skin.

“You’ll owe me one, okay?”

Tsukiyama nodded.

* * *

 

Chie spotted Kaneki the moment she stepped into the campus patio. It was as if he wanted to be found; his white hair fluttered in the wind, his black clothes a stark contrast to his light features. No wonder Tsukiyama kept falling and falling until he could no longer see the way out. Chie sneaked over, but changed her mind and decided to approach him upfront.

She plopped next to him on the bench and harrumphed to get his attention. Once he’s lifted his gaze from his book and looked up at her, she spoke.

“I don’t want to meddle but—“

“But you’re going to meddle anyway.” Kaneki finished her sentence and the smile he gave her was all but genuine. His eyebrows were pulled together in a frown and he kept more than a polite distance between them.

Chie held back a sigh that was threatening to spill from her lips. She would have to be attentive if she wanted to win Kaneki over. “Tsukiyama is someone important to me,” Chie said, deciding upon a straight-forward route.

Kaneki looked down at his hands. He had beautiful fingers, pale complexion, delicate frame, a pretty face and a musing gaze – it came as no surprise that Tsukiyama was attracted to him. But Tsukiyama was easily attracted to beautiful people, and superficial attractions are fleeting. So what was it that Kaneki had that Tsukiyama wanted so badly? So badly, in fact, that he hadn’t realized it himself until it was too late.

“He was gradually becoming someone important to me too,” Kaneki confessed. His white hair fell across his face, obscuring his expression. “But I guess he didn’t feel the same.”

Chie chewed her lip. “Tsukiyama has always had an abundance of everything. He is good-looking, smart, and talented. He has a way of wrapping people around his finger. But he doesn’t—” Chie paused, grasping for words. She wished she had paid better attention to how Tsukiyama did it. “He has become unable to tell what he can live without and what he can’t live without.”

Kaneki scoffed. “Am I supposed to pity him?”

“No, of course not. What I’m trying to say is that you _are_ important to Tsukiyama. But he doesn’t understand what this is,” Chie’s attempts to explain were falling short. As much as Tsukiyama was emotionally-stunted, so was she. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and continued.  “It must sound fake coming from me, but his infatuation with his ‘ _muses_ ’,” she cringed at the word, “lasts for a day or two at best, one painting. But _you_ … You have seen what he’s like when he’s with you, haven’t you?”

“None of this changes the fact that he takes me for granted,” Kaneki retorted.

Chie hung her head. Kaneki was hard to persuade. “He does. And he’s learned that the hardest way possible.”

“ _Did_ he now?”

Chie’s lip was stinging from being bit so hard. “No. Not yet. He still doesn’t know how to call what he feels for you. But please,” she begged. “ _Please_ be by his side at least until the competition is over.”

Kaneki sighed. His eyes fell on his book and his fingers. He was thumping them on the cover, the irregular melody held no meaning to Chie, but to Kaneki it must’ve meant the world.

“Alright,” Kaneki muttered. “Until the competition is over.”

Chie grinned, from ear to ear. “Thank you.”

* * *

 

Kanae used the break between classes to visit Shuu. He never did that out of respect for Shuu’s personal space, but after watching him walk around, spineless and lethargic, Kanae was overcome with worry. Shuu wouldn’t tell him what had happened; he mumbled this and that but nothing concise, not a clear picture of what was bothering him. It made their car rides home all the more unbearable.

It wasn’t until he had caught a glimpse of Chie, Shuu’s Little Mouse and errand girl, with that white-haired menace engaged in what seemed to be a serious conversation that Kanae began to see the full picture.

He wanted to address the issue with Shuu but once he came up to his room, he was greeted only by half-darkness and silence. He walked around the room until he reached a canvas that was suspiciously turned away from the rest of the room. The newspapers at its feet were covered in droplets of paint, and a bowl of dirty grey water. Kanae looked at the canvas and gritted his teeth at the sight of it.

Kanae heard the door open so he swiftly turned around as if snooping around was a crime.  

“Shuu—“ He spoke but came to an abrupt stop when he saw who walked into the room; the white-haired boy in his black clothes with his black bag and a book tucked under his arm. Kanae scowled, the sight of him was like a disease to his eyes.

“I’m surprised you have the gall to appear here,” Kanae said after the boy had discarded his bag next to the doors as if that place was rightfully his. Kanae touched the top of the canvas just for show. The white-haired boy froze in place and Kanae thought that was a good look on him. “I presume you’re the reason Shuu’s not been himself for the past few days.”

The white-haired boy remained still, but his chin was pointed upwards. When he spoke, he barely opened his mouth: “It’s nobody’s fault but _his_.”

_How dares he!_

“I find that hard to believe after seeing this painting…” Kanae lowered his voice. He wasn’t about to let this _commoner_ get the best of him by sending him into blind rage. “Come, see for yourself.”

The white-haired boy shook his head. “I can’t.”

Kanae sneered. “What do you mean you ‘ _can’t_ ’? It’s right here.”

“He doesn’t want me to see it until it’s over.”

Kanae didn’t understand. Wasn’t he mad at Shuu? Wasn’t Shuu feeling down because of it? If so, why was Shuu still waiting and why did the white-haired boy still hold onto his words if he was no longer obligated to?

The rage Kanae was trying to keep at bay has begun to churn in the pit of his stomach at the realization that he was merely an outsider looking into this picturesque scenery shared between this boy and Shuu.

Kanae pressed his lips into a tight line, afraid a scream might escape if he hadn’t. He picked up the bowl full of dirty water to busy his hands. He went for the sink in the corner of the room when the boy said:

“Why don’t you just tell him how you feel?”

Kanae turned around abruptly, the water in the bowl stirring with the movement. “ _Excuse_ me?” He was absolutely certain his voice came out as a screech.

The boy shrugged his puny shoulders, unfazed. “No good comes from holding it in.”

Kanae was always there to see Shuu break; he knew how the sound looked and its aftermath. But never once had he witnessed something inside him snap like a feeble twig. His vision went blank but he was vaguely aware of stomping over to the boy and dumping the contents of the bowl on his face, his shirt.

“What would you know about holding it in?!”

* * *

 

Tsukiyama could no longer listen by the doors. He had taken a walk outside, to clear his head, and once he’d seen Kaneki climb up the stairs and heading towards his room, he grew flustered, nervous. He followed behind him, admiring his confident gait and his tiny, firm frame.

He truly meant to enter a minute after him – so as not to rouse suspicion – but once Kaneki and Kanae engaged in a conversation, he found himself unable to move both by the tension between them and because _he_ was the topic of their exchange. As he listened, he grew more frustrated, every inch of his skin itchy.

When he heard Kanae lose himself and the splash of water on skin, he stepped into the room like a predator on a prowl. He went past Kaneki without sparing him as much as a glance and stopped in front of Kanae. His hand shot out, grabbed the side of Kanae’s head as his fingers dug into Kanae’s soft hair; he tugged at it _just_ enough to cause a brief stinging sensation. He brought his forehead to Kanae’s and whispered a warning: “Kanae, _leave_ and cool your head. Don’t come back until you do.”

Kanae bit his lower lip as if holding back tears. Tsukiyama felt heat radiating off his cheeks and it reminded him how much he hated having to do this. Kanae tore himself from Tsukiyama’s grasp, dropped the bowl and ran out of the room. Tsukiyama took a deep breath and turned around to the sound of dripping and silence.

Kaneki’s outfit was wet and stuck to his body. His face was glistening, water dripping down his chin, but his eyes, those crystal clear, sad eyes would haunt Tsukiyama forever. Tsukiyama discarded his sunglasses on the chair and took a roll of wipes he used for his brushes. He approached Kaneki with mild hesitation and a lump in his throat; he worried Kaneki might run off if he approached too fast.

In the end, Tsukiyama opted for keeping a distance and handing the wipes over. Kaneki took them and wiped his face first. Some of his fringe looked damp and darker than the rest of his hair and Tsukiyama fought against tugging at those few strands and kissing them dry.

“My shirt is wet,” Kaneki stated, his voice pulling Tsukiyama back to present.

Tsukiyama thought for a minute and an idea popped into his mind. His hand reached for the hem of his sweater. “Thank god for layers,” Tsukiyama said, breathy and shaky as he pulled off his sweater. He wore it only because it looked well styled with a dress shirt. Kaneki looked up at him, hesitant. Tsukiyama folded his sweater over his forearm.

“Perhaps you’d like to go home and change, instead?” Tsukiyama inquired. It broke his heart to say it now that Kaneki has finally showed up.

Kaneki shook his head, took off his shirt in one swift motion and threw it on the desk behind him. It landed on his bag, instead.

“No. I’m here, this is fine.” Kaneki took Tsukiyama’s sweater and pulled it over his head. It was too big for Kaneki, but the mere sight of him in Tsukiyama’s sweater tugged at his beating heart. Kaneki let the sweater fall down halfway to his thighs but he rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. Kaneki looked like a house Tsukiyama was locked out of.

Tsukiyama swallowed as he remembered. “Why are you here, Kaneki? You haven’t been replying to my messages…”

Kaneki played with the collar of Tsukiyama’s sweater. His finger tugged at it mercilessly. “I promised, didn’t I? I’d be here and I’d come watch you compete.”

Tsukiyama hadn’t cried since that day he had met Chie, but his eyes stung with many, many things he didn’t understand, even if he wanted to. Tsukiyama gave a silent nod, he himself unsure for whom that nod was meant for. He pulled up a chair and placed it where he could see it but the person sitting on it couldn’t see the canvas.

“Your seat,” Tsukiyama said. “Just sit here and… _don’t go_.”

Kaneki went back for his bag and pulled out a book. It was the one Tsukiyama had given him. A bookmark was placed in the last quarter of the pages and Tsukiyama noticed that Kaneki took good care of it. Kaneki sat on the chair Tsukiyama has provided for him and opened his book. He read and Tsukiyama painted. The images in his head were clearer than they had been in Kaneki’s absence.

After a while, Kaneki seemed to have lost himself in the book but Tsukiyama’s heart swelled ever the same when he saw Kaneki pull the collar of the sweater over his nose and inhale. When the fabric fell down, Kaneki’s lips were pulled in a slight smile.

And it was enough.

* * *

 

It was Friday, four days before the competition and Tsukiyama had entered the final stage of painting his competition piece – the luminous paint. He had never used it before and he wasn’t sure if this project would work out, but what he had in mind could only be conveyed through this technique. Even if it failed, he would at least know that he had poured his heart out in the right place and for someone he… For someone he…?

His train of thought stopped when Kaneki opened the doors and slid into the room. He discarded his bag immediately and Tsukiyama greeted him with a smile. Kaneki pulled out two books from his bag and walked over to sit on the same chair he had sat on yesterday.

“I’ve read your book,” Kaneki announced.

Tsukiyama sat up in his chair, nervous. “ _And_? Did you like it?”

Kaneki scratched the side of his face; that was a good sign of his defenses going down, even if it was just for an inch. “It was a peculiar read. I feel like I would’ve appreciated it more if I had a mind that worked like yours.”

“What do you mean?”

Kaneki caressed the cover of the book. “It felt a lot like _you_. I understand why _you_ like it. And I mean that in a good way.”

Tsukiyama sat back in his chair, his clenched palms resting on his knees and his sweater pulled over his elbows. He wanted to say something but no words came to mind. Kaneki said he understood a piece of him that he had tucked away and Tsukiyama felt naked yet comfortable if it was Kaneki who had stripped him.

Kaneki waited patiently for a while but when Tsukiyama didn’t produce another sentence, he said: “I also washed your sweater. I’ll leave both of these on the desk.” He got up from his seat and busied himself with him bag. He gently pulled out Tsukiyama’s sweater, which seemed to have been properly folded but turned into a complete mess in the bag, and placed it on desk with the book on top. All of Kaneki’s gestures seemed like an afterthought, his mind was elsewhere.

“How is your cousin?” Kaneki asked as he was zipping his bag.

_Ah, there it was._

“I talked to him about yesterday,” Tsukiyama said. His tone was clear and adamant on reassuring Kaneki that everything was alright. “I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t know already.”

“I just want to say that I’m not mad at him,” Kaneki stated and walked back to his seat, picked up a book Tsukiyama didn’t recognize, and sat back down.

Tsukiyama smiled, his eyes barely meeting Kaneki’s. “But you’re mad at me.”

Kaneki shook his head. The hair on the right side of his face was held up by a few bobby pins that reflected the light that came from a single window.

“I’m not mad at you either. I’m something _else_ at you… or rather, _because_ of you.”

Something gnawed at Tsukiyama’s stomach, some sort of unclassified uneasiness or a new species of anxiety. He pulled his chair closer to Kaneki, its legs scraping loudly on the floor, and looked Kaneki straight in the eyes.

Kaneki’s knees pulled up at Tsukiyama’s unexpected closeness, as if he tried to curl in on himself. Tips of Kaneki’s toes were barely touching the ground but Tsukiyama felt heat radiating off his body and found himself pulled close enough to safely whisper and be heard:

“I’m sorry, Kaneki,” Tsukiyama put as much heart in those words as he did in painting.

Kaneki’s expression softened. His knees relaxed and fell down. “I know you are.”

Tsukiyama bit his lip. He hated doing that, it made the skin rough and ugly, but his teeth sought out the closest flesh to tear into in order to keep the rest of his face in check. “Kaneki... Is it not _enough_?”

Tsukiyama snuck his palm around the inside of Kaneki’s knee, the idea of touching him still a ghost on his mind, but when the pads of his fingers put pressure there and Kaneki didn’t flinch at the contact, Tsukiyama’s palm encircled the entirety of Kaneki’s knee. And still, Kaneki’s smile was tender, understanding, as he tucked some of Tsukiyama’s hair behind his ear.

“Tsukiyama,” Kaneki called and the sound of it coming from his mouth always drew Tsukiyama’s attention; it was the finest bait. Kaneki continued, his eyes melting with fondness as they bore into Tsukiyama’s: “You can’t have other people figuring things out for you all the time.”

 _Who was it out of the two_ , Tsukiyama wondered, _that was truly more patient with the other._

* * *

 

The weekend was moving at a snail’s pace. Tsukiyama spent the majority of Saturday clogged in his room, finishing up the painting. He didn’t like the idea of moving the canvas from campus to his mansion but he had no other choice. Kanae barely spoke to Tsukiyama but he helped during the move all the same.

With canvas in his room, Tsukiyama painted away; he checked the color labels multiple times just to make sure he was using the right one. At one point, he called Kanae to supervise what he was doing. Kanae didn’t look at the painting until Tsukiyama called his name and asked him to check if he had made a mistake.

It wasn’t until early Sunday morning that Tsukiyama had finished the painting and collapsed onto his bed. Kanae had begun to drowse at around 3 a.m. and Tsukiyama covered him with a blanket once he had truly fallen asleep. Tsukiyama brushed the hair out of Kanae’s face and stroked his cheek in a silent ‘ _thank you_ ’ before surrendering to slumber himself.

He woke up late in the evening feeling languid; his stomach was peckish, his head throbbing and Kanae was nowhere to be found. He expected Sunday to drag on forever but he wasted it on dreamless sleep. Once he had filled his stomach and drank two glasses of water, he retreated to his room; its dim lights and silence embraced him and promised him safety.

He was staring at the finished painting when his stomach began to churn and twist for different reasons.

He pulled out a piece of paper – notes for _when_ he wins the competition. He went through the list and then pressed the paper to his chest, his heart pounding in time with his breathing. He tried to calm himself down but _all_ he could think about was one phone call away.

Tsukiyama’s phone was on the nightstand where he had left it last night and he reached for it in all his desperation. He found Kaneki’s number and pressed the ‘ _Call’_ button before he could change his mind.

After a few rings, Kaneki picked up.

“Tsukiyama?”

“Is it a bad time?” Tsukiyama asked. He hadn’t stopped to think it was late and Kaneki might’ve gone to bed already.

“No, I was just reading before going to bed.”

Relief washed over Tsukiyama. He made himself comfortable on his pillow and covered himself with two blankets. Now that Kaneki was on the other side of the line, he didn’t know what to say.

“Is there a special reason you called me?” Kaneki inquired when silence prolonged. The sound of his voice, distorted by technology, and his even breathing were enough to put Tsukiyama’s mind at ease.

“I was feeling nervous about tomorrow,” Tsukiyama confessed. He was staring at the ceiling. “I wanted to hear your voice.”

Kaneki chuckled on the other side. What a divine sound that was. In any other situation, he would use this opportunity to do something completely inappropriate but what he felt for Kaneki transcended that old train of thought.  

“I bet you already have a speech prepared,” Kaneki teased and Tsukiyama felt warmth spread to his cheeks.

“I have, in fact. It’s _très bien_!”

“I see you’re feeling better already,” Kaneki said.

“I am, thank you,” Tsukiyama put a smile in his words. He heard the rustling of bed covers on the other side of the line and he wondered what Kaneki might be doing. Making himself more comfortable, perhaps?

“Do you want me to read for you until you fall asleep?” Kaneki proposed.

Tsukiyama felt fondness lazily drag his lips into a smile. It was in this moment that he had learned a new word and he could cry because Kaneki was kind and it was too late but he would take this moment nonetheless and cherish it even when this was all over.

“Yes, please,” Tsukiyama said, his voice barely a whisper.

There was a slight pause on the other end and Tsukiyama feared Kaneki had recognized what had just transpired in Tsukiyama. Even if he did, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he said: “I hope you don’t mind hearing only the second half of the book.”

“I don’t mind,” Tsukiyama said and clapped his hands twice. The light in his room died. “I’ll take anything from you.”

Kaneki read, his voice gently leading Tsukiyama into dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

Tsukiyama scanned the crowd; a mass of grey faces seemed to stretch endlessly before him but he at least knew where to find Chie and Kanae. They were standing next to each other by the light switch in the right corner of the room. Chie smiled at him reassuringly and pointed at her camera. It meant ‘ _I’ll take lots of pictures_.’ Kanae nodded at him and it felt a lot like a squeeze of hand on his shoulder. And then Tsukiyama kept searching the crowd.

He was up next to say a few words about his painting but Kaneki was nowhere to be found!

“Our next contestant is a young man who has already claimed a few awards and made his name as a rising young artist, Tsukiyama Shuu!” The host called.

Tsukiyama wiped his clammy hands on his pants and put on his picture-perfect smile. He took the microphone from the host, his eyes searching through the crowd. He removed the cloth hiding his painting and he heard sighs of both awe and disappointment filling the room at the same time.

The paint was in black and white. It was Kaneki’s profile, his eyes closed and his hair ruffled, surrounded by thorns. The painting was dense with black swirls and pointy ends. The painting was lonely, desolate.

Tsukiyama pulled out a piece of paper with his notes, disappointment riding low in his stomach. He opened his mouth to speak, that alone echoed in a silent hall, when he spotted a patch of white hair walking into the room.

Kaneki stood in the back; he might’ve been standing on the tips of his fingers even and he smiled in Tsukiyama’s direction. Tsukiyama felt his shoulders fall with relief and he crumpled the piece of paper in his hands and put it away in his pocket.

“I don’t want you to pity me,” Tsukiyama spoke, his eyes glued to Kaneki’s. “What you see on this canvas, is what I see _everywhere_. But with art, it’s not always about you _see_ , but what seeing makes you _feel_.” He wasn’t sure where he was going with his speech; it must’ve made no sense but he spoke with all the weight on his heart and it was gradually growing lighter.

“And I learned that it’s the same with people. They inevitably make you _feel_ something if you dare allow yourself to _feel_.”

Tsukiyama clapped his hands twice. Chie tossed him the widest grin and jumped to press the light switch. The lights died and darkness took its place. A hundred gasps echoed through the room. Tsukiyama couldn’t see the colors but he memorized how he had painted them to be.

Black and white disappeared and Kaneki’s eyes opened just a crack. His hair became a veil of light and he was surrounded not by death and loneliness but rich, red roses in full bloom.

“And I did allow myself to feel while painting this piece,” Tsukiyama finished. “A little too late, however. But so long as this _one_ light that _doesn’t_ hurt my eyes exists, I will continue painting and being grateful to be able to do what I do.”

Lights turned back on and a roaring applause replaced the silence. Tsukiyama bowed slightly but his eyes never truly left Kaneki’s.

“That was close. I was getting teary-eyed for a moment,” the host joked as he took the microphone back from Tsukiyama.

 

Tsukiyama’s victory came as no surprise. Photographers were warned not to use flash when taking pictures of him as he held his prize proudly to his heart. He smiled through the ordeal and managed to shake off photographers after good fifteen minutes. He ran towards where Kaneki was, grateful that Chie and Kanae decided to postpone their congratulations, and thankful that Kaneki didn’t disappear yet.

“Congratulations,” Kaneki said, a smile on his lips.

“Thank you,” Tsukiyama felt bashful at receiving Kaneki’s praise. “I didn’t read the speech I prepared, though.”

“Well, that improvisation wasn’t bad either.” Kaneki shuffled his feet, his fist clenching and unclenching at his sides. Tsukiyama was nervous and afraid to the tips of his toes, a certain question weighting on his mind.

“Is…” Tsukiyama began but his voice cracked. He was clutching the award in his hands and had no reason to feel this empty. And yet, his throat burned.  “Is this a _goodbye_?”

Kaneki’s eyes fell but a second later he pulled himself together. He drew closer and placed his hands on Tsukiyama’s hips. Tsukiyama’s heart threatened to spill and bleed ugly black at every move Kaneki made.

Kaneki pulled Tsukiyama to him and lifted himself on his toes to place a chaste, lingering kiss on his forehead. He wordlessly let Tsukiyama go, bowed in Chie and Kanae’s direction and walked out with Tsukiyama’s blood staining his hands.

Chie and Kanae appeared at his side in an instant. Chie’s hand found the small of Tsukiyama’s back and drew soothing circles there.

“Tsukiyama, your face is a mess,” she whispered.

Tsukiyama was crying.

* * *

 

The thing about days was that they passed regardless of whether you wanted to live them or not. Tsukiyama made it through the day before, the Monday when he had both won and lost, but the Tuesday after wasn’t for him.

He was in his room on campus, draped over a desk. His stomach was pressing into the cold, hard surface of the desk; the tips of his toes were touching the floor one side of the desk while his head and hands hung lifelessly on the other side.

He was thinking about moving on and not wanting to. He learned that ‘ _love’_ is a one-syllable word and not _that_ hard to pronounce. But most of all, he realized that this position was extremely uncomfortable. His legs were starting to go numb.  

The doors to his room slid open.

“Chie~ I got _nothing_ ,” he complained, the tone of his voice utterly childish. He wanted to be pampered for a while.

“ _What_ are you doing?”

Tsukiyama recognized the voice and shot up as if he was bitten in the ass. There, at the door frame, stood none other than Kaneki. Tsukiyama’s head was spinning and he felt lightheaded because of all the blood that rushed to his head when he was hanging upside-down. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to think he was hallucinating.

“Kaneki, is that really you?”

Kaneki set his bag down. “Who else?”

Tsukiyama came closer. “But, _that_ was a goodbye, wasn’t it?” He was referring to yesterday. Kaneki looked away briefly but then his eyes were set on Tsukiyama’s face again. His determination always showed in his eyes first.

“I was thinking last night and I don’t want to go anymore. I think you’ve learned what _this_ is, “ Kaneki said and his index finger wiggled in the space between them. “And you can’t talk around it anymore. I won’t let you.”

“So I decided to stay. If you’ll have me, that is.” Kaneki smiled nervously and it must’ve just hit him what he had said.

Tsukiyama couldn’t take it anymore. He lifted Kaneki in his arms, finding his tiny gasp adorable beyond words. If this was a dream, he’ll curse the one who wakes him up.

“Kaneki, of course I’ll have you! I’ll have _you_ for breakfast, lunch _and_ dinner!”

“T-that’s not what I meant!” Kaneki’s cheeks darkened but he tried to make himself more comfortable in Tsukiyama’s arms nevertheless.

“I know,” Tsukiyama smiled and hoped the smile would redeem his uncontrollable desire to tease. “Thank you for coming back.”

Kaneki’s fingers tangled in Tsukiyama’s hair and he brought their foreheads together. “Thank you for making room for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this fic was a lot of fun (and pain) and I would thank you all for reading, commenting, leaving kudos and sticking with me until the end!


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